


Think About You

by cherrymoon



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Confessions, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Oral Sex, Secret Crush, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrymoon/pseuds/cherrymoon
Summary: It's common knowledge that Slash was a junkie, but for a while Axl was too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's common knowledge that Slash was a junkie, but for a while Axl was too.

**27 June 1985**

It’s been a fucked up day and an even more fucked up night. Izzy’s sick so we called off rehearsal. Duff went home to his girlfriend. And Steve slunk off to get high and get laid—in that order. That left me and Axl. Bored shitless, we decided to check out some band playing at the Troubadour and take the opportunity to ‘be seen’. We managed to talk our way in without paying; we wanted to save our measly few dollars for drinks. The band was crap, as we knew it would be, but worst of all, this giant bald guy eyed off Axl the entire time we were there. At first I wasn’t sure if he wanted to fuck Axl or fight him. Turns out, he wanted to fight him. I hassled Axl to leave but he wanted to stay. Ten minutes later, the giant threw the first punch. That was it. Axl’s eyes glazed over with pure fury as he morphed into that flame-haired demon we’re all getting to know. He pummeled that giant until blood was streaming from every orifice. I was finally able to pull him away before someone thought to call the cops—or Axl killed him—whichever came first.

Watching Axl like that… It’s like he’s different person. At times he’s as fragile as he is menacing. I’ve seen him fight like a motherfucker then cry like a baby. I have no idea what’s going on inside his head, but I figure it must be hell.

“So, we gonna do this, or what?” he croons in that voice, two octaves deep and dripping with sex.

I swig from my bottle of Jack as I look down at him and the droplets of water that trickle down his body towards the towel around his waist. “Yeah,” I reply, tearing my eyes away. “Come on.” Despite the cuts and bruises messing up his face, he’s fucking beautiful.

Axl is currently of ‘no fixed address’. So am I since my girlfriend Yvonne kicked me out of her apartment. Two days after we got back from Seattle she decided she had enough and tossed me out. That’s nothing unusual. We’ve been off and on for so long, it’s become the natural rhythm of our relationship. So here we are, crashing on the couch in our rehearsal space in Silverlake. At least there’s a couch—and it sure as hell beats sleeping on the street. “Put the tape on,” I say, pointing to the stolen boom box.

Axl drops his bloody clothes on the floor as he reaches over and hits the button. The tranquilizing melody of the Beatles’ Dear Prudence rises on the tide of cigarette smoke that chokes the claustrophobic living space. Dear Prudence was playing on the stereo the first time I ever mainlined. I was with Izzy in some strange chick’s apartment... I didn’t have a clue who she was but we hung out there for hours afterward playing it over and over again. It’s forever imprinted on my brain.

I haven’t known Axl all that long but we’ve become friends. We hang out most days, rehearsing and writing new stuff. He’s always cool when we work, losing himself in the melodies we bring and unburdening his soul in the lyrics. Now he’s sitting here, a cigarette dangling from his lips, waiting for me to take him on a new ride. I feel twisted inside; excited and scared all at the same time. Excited because we’re alone together for the first time ever, but afraid because of the fucked up shit I feel for him. I can’t believe the crap going through my head. I’m feeling shit I know I shouldn’t be feeling. But it’s all good. I can handle it. I’ve just gotta keep my mouth shut and my dick in my pants.

“Is it ready?” he asks.

“I fixed while you were cleaning up. Gimme your arm.”

He dutifully holds out his right arm and I wind my belt around his bicep, gagging the image of Monique tattooed on his arm. I know he was in love with her. Or at least in lust. Until she dumped his ass outside the Roxy. He did a lot of hurting over her, but it did inspire a great song. Don’t Cry is epic. His slender fingers brush the inside of my bicep as I cradle his elbow in my hand. I hold my breath as my cock spasms.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I lie.

I can’t let him know how I feel. I can never let him know how I feel. Everything would be over before it’s even begun. We just became Guns n’ fucking Roses for fuck sake—the most badass band in Hollywood; nothing is gonna get in the way of that, not women, not drugs, not my messed up fucking feelings. At the same time I can’t help wondering what’s going to kill me first, shooting smack or my grinding desire to fuck him. Mind you, I’ve never fucked a guy in my life. Never wanted to until now. And now I want to. So. Fucking. Bad. Slap. Slap slap. I smack his milky white skin with my fingers and raise a vein. “Clench your fist a bit.”

His fingers contract and relax against my bicep. My cock twitches all over again. I take deeps breaths and try to relax.

It’s not long before a vein swells up. I grab the syringe and flick it round in my fingers. I angle the needle parallel to his arm and prick the skin.

Then I stop.

“What now?” he asks.

The light from our overhead bulb catches in his emerald eyes as I look up at him. They burn with magic, passion, innocence and trust.

My voice is small but I double check, “You sure you wanna do this?”

He looks back at me and smiles. “It’s just another way to get wasted.”

But it’s not just another way to get wasted. It’s the only way to get wasted. This is heroin.

Smoke curls from the tip of his cigarette as he waits for me. “Jesus, Slash, I’m hurting here.”

“All right, I say. Keep still. I don’t want to miss.”

I take a deep breath and drive the needle into his vein. He doesn’t even flinch. I pull the plunger back drawing his blood into the plastic tube of ecstasy. It’s a good hit; straight in. I loosen the belt that gags Monique. And shoot. Seconds later, he turns pale as the blood drains from his face. The ‘good sick’ kicks in; the wave of nausea that almost always hits first time shooters. Then the rush. The headgasm. His pupils contract to the size of pin-pricks. His eyelids close, his head drops, and his body lolls slowly sideways. He’s got the tingling, the wave of euphoria that only opiates can provide. I take the cigarette from between his fingers and put it in my mouth. Then I stick my thumb over the entry point taking care not to rip his vein when I pull the needle out.

“Ax.”

No answer.

“Ax.”

“What?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says.

I swig from my bottle as I look at him. Color returns to cheeks. Now he’s got the flush. This is the best part of doing junk. I look down at the towel around his waist and see his cock swelling. The flush is giving him a hard on. My own cock squirms. If I were an asshole, I’d fuck him where he lies. But I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want to do anything to fuck up this band. It’s too good. And it’s too important—to all of us. Without it, we’re just gutter rats feeding off of other gutter rats. But together—together we’re gonna be invincible.

“I need a drink.”

I hand him my bottle of Jack. He opens his eyes. His pupils have zipped to the size of pinpricks. I slide off the couch and down onto the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just stretching my legs.” I spread an old blanket on the floor and settle in. I’m gonna sleep down here. My brain’s aching from thinking about all this shit with Axl. It’s exhausting. I just want to shoot and sleep and stop twisting myself in knots. I pluck a bindle from my pocket and get to work.

“Slash.”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m fixing.”

“Hurry up.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Come back up here.”

“Nah, man. You have the couch. I’m gonna crash down here on the floor.”

“Bullshit, motherfucker. Get back up here.”

How can I get back up there? How can I get through a whole night with him beside me and not go crazy? I’m gonna get good and whacked, that’s how. If I’m going to get back up there, I’m gonna need to be good and gone. I cook the whole bindle, load up the syringe, and tie off. The needle’s a little blunt from shooting Axl. I shove a little harder. I don’t normally share needles but this is a special occasion. I release the belt. The rush is quick. And so fucking good.

“Hurry up, man,” Axl urges, his voice winding itself around me like one of my pet snakes.

I get up and crush what’s left of his cigarette beneath my boot. Then I flick the light switch. Now, it’s pitch fucking black. Suddenly, CRASH. I trip over my guitar case. “Jesus Christ,” I curse.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he says.

“I’m coming,” I reply. “Way to break a leg, Hudson,” I mumble to myself as I flick my lighter. The orange flame sparks up the darkness but my smack affected vision is slow to adjust.

“Hurry up,” he says.

Finally, I slink down onto the couch beside him and light up a smoke. I’m close. Too close for any actual comfort. I pick up the blanket off the floor and toss it over Axl. It’s cold in here. Then at last, I close my eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

“Slash.”

I’m not sure but think I’m dreaming.

“Slash.”

Nope. Not dreaming. Just nodding out. I pry open my eyes. “What’s wrong?” I slur.

“Wake up,” he says.

I’m still holding the cigarette I lit when I first sat down. Burnt down to the filter, I flick it away then flick my lighter. I squint in its cheap orange glow. Axl struggles to sit up beside me. He’s shaking like a leaf.

“Oh shit,” I sigh, grabbing the Jack. Now the bad sick’s kicking in. “Come on.”

His whole body trembles as I help him up off the couch. The towel he had around his waist is gone. All he’s got now is the blanket he clutches around his quivering shoulders.

I kick a path for him through the empty pizza boxes, whiskey bottles and cigarette butts that litter the floor and slam the button beside the roller door. A wave of cool air skids inside as the door slowly rises. It prickles my bare chest; makes me scratch like a motherfucker.

The same air makes Axl gag. He stumbles out under the door, barely makes it into the alley when he falls to his knees and starts heaving.

I hold back his hair as I crouch beside him, his stomach muscles expanding and contracting, wracking his body in a violent attempt to eject the precious Persian poison we just shot into it. “It’s all right, man, I pronounce. This always happens the first time.”

At last the convulsions stop.

He stays there on his hands and knees until I pick him up and hand him the bottle of Jack. “Rinse your mouth.”

He takes a big gulp, swishes and spits. Then he shuffles back inside.

I go to close the door but he tells me to stop. He likes the cool air on his blistering skin. I leave him trembling in the breeze while I search around and find the cigarettes. I light two and give him one. He sucks on the filter, draws the smoke deep into his lungs. Despite the lung-hugging tar from his twenty-a-day habit, the red-headed fucker’s got the most incredible voice I’ve ever heard. The first time I heard him was on a cassette tape Izzy gave me. The Hollywood Rose demo was recorded on a boom box onto a cheap, shitty cassette tape. The background noise was relentless. However, I knew there was something special, something exceptional, about the lead singer. Pure and gritty all at the same time, his voice was elastic with wailing highs and guttural lows… His vocal range was supernatural. Spellbinding.

But the shitty cassette tape was nothing until I saw them perform. One night me and Steve went to Gasarri’s to check ‘em out. Izzy was doing knee slides all over the place and Axl…  I was mesmerized not only by his voice but by his inexhaustible energy. He was like time bomb teetering on the edge of explosion. Even more impossible was the way he moved, stroking the mic stand, rolling his hips and snaking his way across the stage… Everything about him screamed sex and bloody danger. It was a mind-fucking, dick throbbing combination.

Now, he takes a seat on Steve’s drum stool, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. Color returns to his cheeks as he sucks on the cigarette gripped between his slender fingers.

“You all right?” I dare.

“Yeah,” he nods.

I can’t help staring as ripples of smoke curl from his sanguine lips. His porcelain skin and flame-colored locks that sweep over one eye… I have to look away. “So why’d you do it?” I ask.

“Do what?” he replies.

I stand by the roller door swigging from my bottle. “Why’d you wale on that guy in the club tonight?

He frowns, genuinely confused. “Wale?”

“Blood was pissing out of his eyes, man. I thought you were going beat him to death.”

He looks at me beneath his ginger fringe, genuinely confused, and I realize he doesn’t have a clue what he did tonight. He gets up, pulls the blanket tight around his shoulders and starts walking—aimlessly.

“Ax?”

He doesn’t seem to hear to me.

“Axl.” I slide up in front of him, grab his arm and stop him in his tracks. “What’s going on, man?”

He raises his emerald eyes to mine. I feel the heat coming off his skin as I return his gaze. I smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the commotion in his soul, as his eyes troll mine for answers to unfathomable questions. My heart starts thrashing in my chest as I’m drawn in by those deep green eyes. I trace every line and feature on his face. His cuts are swollen. His bruises are purple. His lips are dry and cracked. But I don’t care. I’m gonna taste them. I lean in.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

“Nothing,” I lie, going slowly. Slowly. No sudden moves.

We’re so close now.

His breathing deepens.

There’s barely a whisper between us.

“Don’t,” he protests.

But I ignore him. I can’t stop. I want this too fucking much.

His eyes close as I get closer.

He holds his breath.

Finally, I press my lips to his.

He keeps absolutely still; is this real or some drug-fucked illusion?

I take it easy. I don’t want to rush or ruin the moment. I want to taste him, breathe him in. Finally, his lips part, the gates open, he lets me in. And I can’t hold back. I grab his hair in both my hands and thrust my tongue towards his, desperate to be inside him. And for one incredible moment, we lose ourselves in furious passion.

Until he realizes it’s all too real and scary and pulls away.

I watch as he swipes away the taste of me with the back of his hand like a mouthful of sour milk. And the look in his eyes… It’s the heart-breaking look of distrust and disgust.

He grabs his jeans and pulls them on.

“What are you doing?” I dare. But I already know the answer.

He pulls his t-shirt over his head and grabs his boots.

“Axl.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’m sorry,” I offer, lamely.

But it doesn’t make any difference. He’s out the door, halfway down the alley. Already gone.

I clasp my hands behind my head as I spin around. “Shit.”

Most of the time, me and Axl get along like a house on fire. There’s no denying we’re attracted to each other…  Yet, where I’m laid back and easy going, Axl is intense and complex. I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be able to work him out—or survive our relationship, whatever our relationship is.

 

****

 

**28 June 1985**

The Stardust Ballroom. It’s a big space with white walls and a white tiled ceiling. Four bands are playing here tonight: The Unforgiven, The Jonses, London, and us. And guess who’s on first. Come hell or high water at eight o’clock we’re hitting that stage.

I suck on a cigarette as I walk through the crowd and the cloud of marijuana smoke that hangs in the air outside the front door. My guts are churning. Not because of the gig, I couldn’t give a shit about that right now, but because of what happened with me and Axl this morning. I have no idea how this going to play out. I know he was upset and confused… I have no idea if he's even going to turn up.

A few hard core groupies are already inside, a smorgasbord of hotness desperate for the opportunity to spread their legs for the object of their desires. Sometimes that’s us. Sometimes it ain’t. I flick a few bucks to Manny behind the bar and grab a bottle of Jack. I start guzzling as I make my way backstage.

I spot my friend Marc Canter talking to the club owner. I give him a wave and keep walking. Danny, one of our roadies, is tuning Izzy’s guitar. “Is Axl here yet? I venture.

“Nah,” he replies. “But everyone else is.”

I check out the stage. It’s a big space. We’ll have no problems filling it. Steven’s kit is on the riser shoved up hard against the back wall. The amps are stacked and powered up. Duff’s bass is in its stand. But my guitar… My guitar is still in its fucking case. “Where the fuck is Joe?” I snap.

“Right here,” a voice booms from behind.

I turn around and cop a look at him. His face is bruised and swollen and one eye is black and almost closed. I can’t help but laugh. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“He got caught slipping the tongue into some guy’s girlfriend at the Rainbow last night,” Danny laughs.

“Jesus. I hope she was worth it.”

Joe smiles. I guess she was. As far as roadies go, Joe’s a great a guy and very, very loyal. As I walk off I call back to him. “Get my shit ready, man. It’s almost eight o’clock.” He gives me a wave. I know he won’t let me down.

“Where’s Axl?” I demand, as I walk through the door.

“Hello to you, too, motherfucker,” Duff says, swiping at his coke-filled nose.

The room is almost wall to wall with assorted friends, hangers-on, and drug dealers. The party’s already started.

“No one’s seen him all day,” Steven says, so jacked on blow he’s rapping those sticks at a million miles an hour.

“He does know the gig’s tonight, right?” Izzy wonders.

“Yeah, of course he does.” Duff says,

“He’s probably shivering behind a dumpster somewhere,” Steven adds, “freaking out about some new crisis.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “You’ve got no idea what’s going on, so don’t even fucking go there.”

He stops rapping and stares up at me like a stunned mullet. All through high school me and him were friends. Now I’m glaring at him like he’s my mortal fucking enemy.

“Take it easy, man,” Izzy says, quietly sliding up beside me. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Someone needs to go out and look for him,” I say.

“Are you kidding?” Duff says. “We’re on in five minutes.”

I look at Izzy. “Gimme your rig, man.”

Izzy exhales a cloud of smoke as he looks me in the eye. He decides it’s probably better to just give it to me than to argue. He grabs his backpack and pulls out his kit.

I white-knuckle it as I head for the bathroom. All I want to do is shoot some dope and forget about Axl fuckin’ Rose.    

 “What’s up his ass?” Steven dares as I disappear out the door.

“Forget it, Stevie,” Duff warns.

 I can’t tell them what’s up my ass. I can’t tell them anything.

A minute later I’m standing at the sink in the grimy little men’s room tying off when Marc barges in. “Jesus Christ,” he says, looking at my arm. “You’re going on in ten minutes.”

“Five minutes."

“Where’s Axl?” he asks.

“How should I know?”

“You were the last one to see him.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not his fucking keeper so get out and let me do this.”

"Jesus, Saul. What the hell are doing? This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve been working for. It’s what you’ve been starving for.”

He’s right. It is what I’ve been working for and I can tell he’s disappointed, but right now I need a fix more than I need a reality check. “Don’t fuck it up,” he says, shaking his head as he leaves. I love Marc, he’s my best friend in the whole world, but I’m glad he’s gone. Now I can spring a vein and get down to business.

My head falls back and my cigarette slips from my lips as the rush washes over my body and I surrender to my post shoot shake. All of a sudden, my guilt and anxiety is lost in a drug-fucked cloud and I can finally relax. I love this shit. But it’s time to go so l slink back to the dressing room. I find my smokes and light one up just as Joe lopes in and tells us it’s time to go.

“I can’t believe he’s not here,” Steven spits.

“Well, if you want to get paid, you’re going to have to get out there—with or without him,” Marc says.

We head out the door collectively cursing Axl until we spot him standing by the stage arm in arm with two chicks I’ve never seen before.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Steven hisses at him.

“Back off, bitch. I’m here, all right,” he says, winding his arms around the blonde.

I swig from my bottle of Jack as I watch him shove his tongue down her throat and kisses her long and hard. My heart wrenches in my chest, feels as heavy as a stone as it’s crushed beneath the heel of his disdain for me.

On stage, I vaguely hear Danny introducing us and the smattering of applause that follows from the punks and stoners waiting like jackals for us to entertain them.

Axl’s eyes bore into mine, a warning, a message, as he pulls his tongue from the bitch’s mouth and whispers something in her ear. But that’s good. Now I know exactly where I stand and I’m glad ‘cause I don’t want to be the one to mess this up. I don’t want to be the one who makes it all go wrong or the stupid dumb fuck who derails the speeding train called Guns N’ Roses.

Izzy frowns as his eyes slide between me and Axl. “You all right, man?” he asks, genuinely concerned for me as he slings his guitar over his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I snap back, guzzling my Jack like it’s water. “Let’s just get out there.”


	3. Chapter 3

The eyes of fifty odd punks and stoners bore into us as we climb up on stage. I clench my cigarette between my lips as I swing my guitar strap over my head and check my amp. I look over at Izzy and Duff. Their amps are cranking and they’re ready to go. I take a deep breath and slide my eyes over to Axl. Right now all I want to do is choke the skinny little fucker, but that’ll have to wait. Beneath his shock of red hair his piercing green eyes stare back at me and I can tell he’s thinking exactly the same thing I am. More than anything else in our shit-filled lives, we all know that if we’re gonna make it in this business we have to rock each and every one of these piss-soaked dives to its foundation, despite whatever fear, fighting, or fucked up feelings we might be dealing with. He gives me a nod; it’s time to work.

I look back at Steven. A big cheesy grin spreads across his lips as he twirls the stick in his right hand and counts us in—one, two, three... Then with every atom of pent up excitement in his hairy-ass body he launches into a drum roll. Moments later, Duff’s chunking out the bass line in _Reckless Life_ and me and Izzy are chunking out the opening chords.

The punks and stoners all look up, not quite sure what to make of us as Axl growls into the microphone and rocks his way to the front of the stage. With his milky-white chest bare beneath his sleeveless jacket and his balls bulging in skin-tight leggings, he’s a cock-throbbing grenade of sex and anarchy as he screeches out the lyrics “ _…living with the danger, I’m always on the edge now…”_

Marc Cantor weaves his way through the crush snapping shot after shot of us. Crazy mother-fucker doesn’t want to miss a thing. He’s even recording the sound. Marc and I have been friends since fifth grade when he caught me trying to steal his mini bike. He knows me better than anyone and besides the five of us he’s the only person who believes, heart and soul, that Guns N’ Roses is gonna make it as the world’s most dangerous rock n’ roll band.

Now, as the last note of _Reckless_ dies in the cloud of cigarette smoke hugging the tobacco-stained ceiling, we launch into _Shadow of Your Love_. One song in and Axl’s already got his jacket off. Duff struts across the stage, a six-foot, blonde-haired guitar god, while Izzy lays down his trademark licks. We’re on fire as we swagger and sway our way through _Jumpin’ Jack Flash_ and _Move to the City._

Between the energy on stage and the million watt glare of the house lights, it’s not long before we’re all sweating like pigs. I peel off my shirt and guzzle as much Jack as I can before launching into _Think About You_. The punks and stoners hang off every note and lyric as Axl snakes his way across the stage crooning into the microphone.  “ _…I said baby you been looking real good, you know that I remember when we meee-et. It’s funny how I never felt so good, it’s a feeling that I know, I know I’ll never forget…”_  Before I know it, he’s flinging his arm around my neck. Slick with sweat, he grinds his hip into mine as he rocks out beside me.

One touch from his slender hand is all it takes to make my cock twitch—and my gut wrench. I don’t get it. He walked out on me. He could barely bring himself to look at me. Yet here he is, grinding into me like nothing happened. I know I should move. I know I’m pathetic. But I want this. I want him. I press my head back against his shoulder as I feel his body next to mine and lose myself in the fantasy as we rock in perfect rhythm. _“…deep inside I love you best,”_ he wails. _“… I think about you, you know you're the one I want, I think about you…”_ Behind my guitar, blood floods into the base of my cock forcing it to spasm—and my mind to wander. I breathe hard as I try to focus but it’s no use. The more he rocks beside me, the more I have to get away. I manoeuvre my way out from beneath his arm, terrified someone’s gonna notice the growing bulge in my leather pants, and head for the other side of the stage. I keep my distance from the red-haired motherfucker as we smash our way through the rest of the set.Whatever this is we’re doing, whatever it is he’s doing to me, it’s doing my fucking head in.

The punks and stoners whoop and holler as they stomp the final notes of _Heartbreak Hotel_ into the beer-soaked carpet. We clamber off stage and head for the dressing room which is packed with band members, crew, groupies and girlfriends. The vibe is electric as everyone slaps us on the back and congratulates us on a great gig. Duff and Steven start cutting lines, Izzy sparks up a joint, and Axl is cornered by Paul Mars, The Jones’s drummer. We all know Paul’s unhappy. He trusts Axl and so gets in his ear every chance he gets.

“Hey, Saul,” Marc calls from behind me. I turn around. He can tell I’m not happy. “What’s going on, man?” he dares to ask.

“Nothing,” I snap back, clearly distracted by the sight of the two chicks who came in with Axl shoving their way through the crowd towards their red-haired trophy.

He looks over to see what I’m looking at then looks back at me. “You and Axl fighting?”

“Maybe,” I reply. I don’t really know.

Suddenly, Duff slides up and flings his arm around my shoulder. “We rocked the fucking house tonight, man. We are the coolest fucking band on the planet.”

“We need to start working on the flyer for Madame Wong’s,” Marc says, holding up his battered old SLR camera. “I’ll get these developed tomorrow. It’ll be good to have something new. What do you think?” he says, looking at me expecting an answer. But my eyes are once again focused on the other side of the room. And now Axl and the girls are gone. And I don’t answer.

Marc looks at Duff as if to say ‘what the fuck is up with this guy?’

Duff breaks the silence. “Some new pics would be great, man,” he says, slapping Marc on the shoulder. “We couldn’t do it without you.”

Marc smiles, appreciates the sentiment, then disappears into the crowd.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Duff demands. “You just pissed off your best friend in the whole world. The best friend who feeds us and looks after us... The best friend who we need...”

I know I was out of line. I didn’t mean to upset him but right now I can’t deal with anything outside of my own personal hell. “I’m going for a piss,” I slur.

“I’ll come with,” he says.

I don’t want him to come. I want to be alone. But I don’t want to piss off another friend. They’re too hard to come by. And so he tags along behind me as I push my way through the shit-kickers and hangers-on.

When I get to the bathroom, I swing open the door and stop dead in my tracks. Axl’s there, large as life, with the blonde bitch. Only she’s on her knees in front of him, her head bobbing up and down like one of those bobble-headed dogs you put in the back window of your car, as she sucks him off. Despite our intrusion, she never misses a beat.

“Jesus, Rose,” Duff says, laughing his ass off. He slaps me on the shoulder. “I’m gonna piss out back in the alley,” he says, and walks out.

I should go too, but for some reason I don’t move. I just stare into Axl’s eyes searching for a reason, desperate for an answer. I get one when he takes a deep breath and arches his back shoving his cock deeper into the chick’s mouth. He might as well be stabbing me in the heart. I turn around and leave.

I push my way through friends and slime-bags alike to find Izzy. I finally find him chatting up the brunette who came in with Axl and the blonde. I glare at her as I lean in to Izzy’s ear. “I need your rig.”

He looks at me, surprised. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”  

“No.”

I can see he’s worried about me, but he doesn’t push it. His eyes slide over to his backpack propped against the wall in the corner. I yank open the zip, grab the rig, and get the fuck outta there. I head straight for the front door and the promise of oblivion when I hear my name being called from behind.

“Slash.” It’s the brunette who was chatting with Izzy. “Wait.”

I keep walking.

She runs around in front of me, blocks my path. “What the fuck?” I curse.

She looks me up and down until she finally settles on my face. “You were great tonight.”

“I’m great every night,” I declare, doing my best to dodge her.

“Don’t you want to stay a while?” she coos.

“No,” I snap back.

“You know, my friend told me Izzy was the guitar god.”

“Oh yeah,” I say.

"I say she got it wrong.” She slides a ruby-red fingernail slowly down my bare chest. “How about we go back to my place? You can give me a private show.”

"What about Izzy?” I wonder.

“Izzy who?” she coos.

 I swig from my near-empty bottle as I stare at her tits spilling out of her skin-tight top.

 “You won’t be sorry,” she says.

“I gotta cop first,” I say, getting my priorities straight.

“No problem,” she replies, with a knowing smile.

As we go, I catch a glimpse of Marc as he helps Danny and Joe to pack up our gear. The disapproval in his eyes is too much. I look away. Ignore him. Get out of there as fast as I can.

 

***

 

Aerosmith’s _Lightning Strikes_ cranks on the record player. Thank God the girl’s got something decent to listen to.

I can hardly see a fucking thing as I cook in the dim glimmer of the dime store lamp in her bedroom. She sits on the floor beside me planting kisses on my bare shoulder and rubbing my cock through my leather pants.

I hold up the syringe to the dingy light. The sight of the yellowish liquid in the clear plastic tube starts my heart racing in anticipation but the girl’s got other ideas. She peels off her skin-tight top as she whispers in my ear, “We should fuck first.”

She paid for the dope and we’re at her house so I guess I owe her a fuck. I bite the bullet and surrender the syringe. The next thing I know her tongue is in my mouth and her hand is down my pants coaxing my cock to attention. It’s a hard job when all I can think about is Axl with his dick in the blonde chick’s mouth. I reach down and unzip making her job a little easier. My semi-erect offering springs from its leather prison causing her to gasp. I realize she’s never seen an uncut dick before. Her eyes slide up to mine, looking for some kind of reassurance. “Hippy parents,” I say, as if that somehow explains it all.

In the silence between _Lightning Strikes_ and _Bitch’s Brew_ she pulls back the foreskin and uncloaks the head. She rubs her thumb over the naked slit, relieved I guess, to know that everything’s where it should be. Moments later, she’s leaning down teasing me with her tongue. It’s not long before pre-cum oozes and my balls begin to tighten. At last, she opens her mouth and takes me in. I drop my head back against the bed and moan as the head of my cock hits the back of her throat. She tightens her pretty lips and sucks long and hard and for a moment I forget about Axl and his blonde-haired bitch. Every smack of her mouth brings me closer to the edge—until finally I tell her stop. I pull her up to my lap and turn her around. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to look at her. Truth be told, she’s just a nameless blow-rag with some good junk and a soft bed. She pushes the crotch of her panties to one side as I guide her down onto my hard on. She’s dripping wet and I slide in easily. I sink my fingers into her fleshy hips and start pumping. I pick up the pace in time with Steven Tyler’s wailing as we fuck our way through the rest of _Bitch’s Brew._ By the time the drum and guitar kick off _Bolivian Ragamuffin_ I’m blowing my load. I ride out the spasms of what passes for an orgasm then get her off me.

I ignore the cum and cunt juice as I reach over and grab my smokes. I light one up, desperate for the fog in my lungs. I search for my syringe and grab one of her stockings. I have no idea what she’s doing as I tie off and I really don’t fucking care. I quickly raise a vein, angle, and shoot. The rush hits me like a steam train. And so I sit on the floor shaking and faking my way into an Axl-free fucking oblivion.


	4. Chapter 4

**29 June 1985**

It’s ten past six in the morning and already the sun is blinding. Not good when you’re nursing a narcotic hangover. I glance over at the girl. I’m grateful she’s giving me a lift to work but I can’t help thinking about how different things look in the cold light of day. Her legs are blotchy, her hair is tangled, and last night’s make up is smeared all over her face. I know I’m no oil painting but I can’t help wondering why the hell I thought this was a good idea.

The drive is cold and silent. I suck on a cigarette and praise fucking Jesus when we finally turn onto Fairfax. I get her to pull up half a block from the newsstand. When I climb out of the car, I thank her and slam the door. I don’t even stay to watch her drive away. Instead, I head around the corner and see the newsstand is already open.

“You’re late,” Alison says as she glares at me sliding up to the counter. “Again.”

“Two minutes,” I protest.

“What if it was Tony?” she says. “If it was Tony, you’d be fired already.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not Tony,” I say.

Alison’s got a ‘thing’ for me and in all honestly I have no problem exploiting that whenever necessary. And now is necessary. Alison’s about ten years older than me, maybe fifteen, and so we play this game where she flirts and I flirt and no one gets hurt. I peck her on the cheek and she smiles with her teeth. I know it’s hard for her to stay mad at me. And right now, this job is the only thing between me and a fearsome narcotic withdrawal. My appreciation for drugs and alcohol won’t allow me to quit it.

I get through my shift then walk down Fairfax to Canter’s Deli. I want to see Marc and apologize for being such an asshole at the gig last night. When I walk through the door, Marc’s dad greets me with a wave and smile and tells me his boy is out the back. I find him in the pantry beside the kitchen mulling over giant bags of self-raising flour.

“You’re still alive then,” he observes, clearly none-too-happy with me. “Did you make it to work?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he says, turning back to his bags of flour.

“Look,” I say, struggling to find the words. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole last night. I’ve got some shit going on, you know?”

He looks me in the eye. “I know,” he says. “The worst part is you’ve got friends who can help you. You just won’t let ‘em.

I close my eyes and hang my head and sigh. How can I tell him? How can I tell anyone? Marc’s my best friend. I know he loves me. I also know he won’t understand. I head for the door.

“You’ve gotta tell me what’s going on,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say.

“Saul…” he calls after me.

I look back.

“You’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“I’ll see you later,” I say, and walk out.

As soon as I’m on the street, I find a pay phone and call my dealer.

 

***

 

Six hours later, I’m feeling no pain as I strut down the alley behind the studio. The doof doof doof of drums and bass tells me Duff and Steven are already there. Inside, trapped in the tiny claustrophobic space, a pall of marijuana smoke clings to the soundproof batts on the ceiling. Leaving the door open is not an option. Steven greets me with a big cheesy smile and Duff gives me a nod. Izzy doesn’t bother. He’s sitting on the floor noodling on his guitar. And Axl... he’s lying on the couch, deep in concentration, a cigarette clenched between his fingers as he writes in an old notebook.

My stomach’s in knots. I desperately want to reach over and pick up my guitar and play like we’re heading towards some kind of happy ending but we’re not. If I stay, there’s going to be hurt and pain and anger and substance abuse. Lots and lots of substance abuse.

Someone tells me to sit down. Duff I think. But I can’t sit. If I do, it’ll only make what I came to say ten times harder to actually fucking say. So, I take a deep breath and open my mouth. I’m about to spill when Izzy’s noodling spontaneously combusts into a melody. I hope and pray it turns into nothing. But who am I kidding? It’s like everything Izzy comes up with: genius. Duff plucks a few notes on the bass, instinctively knows where Izzy’s taking it. Before long, he’s ripping out a bitching bass line. A moment later, Steven’s rocking along with a drum beat. As I stand there listening, a riff starts ripening in my head. With every fiber of my being I resist the urge to grab my guitar. Instead, I hang back—and catch a glimpse of Axl in the corner of my eye.

He sits up, trying out the rhythm of his new lyrics. Everyone winds back the decibels and lets him do his thing. Every note, every word, drips with sex and violence as they hang in the balance between romantic aria and psycho-sexual ode. Everything that comes out of his mouth is dirty, dangerous, and explosive. He _is_ the greatest front man the world will ever know.

When he’s done, he looks up at me from beneath that fringe of burnt orange hair as he drags on his cigarette and smiles. “So, what do you think?” he says, knowing it’s shaping up to be a killer tune.

I hesitate to answer. And as I look at him, I can see the smile slipping from his lips as he realizes something’s wrong. I can’t put it off now. I have to say what I came to say then go get totally fucking wasted. “I’m pulling out,” I announce.

No one pays attention—except Axl whose eyes darken with a mix of confusion and anger.

I raise my voice and try again. “I said I’m quitting the band.”

Now everyone stops. The silence is deafening as they stare at me—until Steven finally finds his tongue. “You’re what?”

“I’ll play the next couple of gigs,” I say, “Madame Wong’s and the Troub, but after that… I’m done.”

Duff frowns at me through the sweep of blond hair hanging over his eyes. “What the fuck, man?”

I don’t answer. What am I supposed to say? I’m leaving ‘cause all I can think about is fucking our lead singer? I don’t think so.

Izzy gets up, an ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips, and looks me square in the eye. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I reply.

Without another word, he puts down his guitar and walks out.

Steven gets up from behind the kit. “The Hell Tour, man. What was that all about if you’re not going to stay? Didn’t it mean anything to you?”

I close my eyes as I exhale. Fucking prick might as well be stabbing me with a thousand rusty knives. Of course it meant something to me. It meant everything to me. It was the moment we became Guns N’ fucking Roses for Christ’s sake.

Furious, he tosses his sticks to the floor and stands there, hands on his hips, shaking his head.

Duff squats beside Axl who is sitting on the couch. As he puts his bass in its case, he whispers, “Talk to him. Find out what the fuck is going on.” Axl nods as Duff lights up a smoke, grabs Steven, and follows Izzy out the door.

 Now it’s just me and the red head. Smoke curls from the end of his cigarette as he sits there in silence. I figure he’s not going to speak, so I take a swig of Jack and head for the door.

“You can’t quit,” he says.

“Already have,” I reply, pushing the door open.

“You don’t get to walk out of here without some kind of explanation,” he hisses as he climbs off the couch.

I sigh, let go of the door, then turn to face the music. And have to catch my breath. His cuts are less swollen, the bruises less purple, and his lips not so dry and cracked. He’s so fucking beautiful I have to close my eyes so I can gather my thoughts. “I’m not doing this anymore,” I mewl.

“Doing what?” he says, grinding his butt out on the concrete floor.

“You know what.”

“You’re walking away from the greatest rock n’ roll band this world is ever going to see.”

“There’ll be others.”

“No, there won’t.”

Maybe he’s right but I can’t think about that now. I have to be strong. I have to stay committed. But he’s standing too close. “What do you want from me, Axl? I sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say you’re going to stay.”

“I can’t.” I turn back to the door, go to push it open, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me back.

My heart hammers in my chest as I spin around to see those eyes staring into mine, weakening my resolve. “Let me go,” I mumble feebly, desperate to get out before it deserts me altogether.

“Or what?” he whispers defiantly.

“Don’t…” I plead again.

But that doesn’t stop him. He grinds his hip into mine as he shoves me against the door. There’s barely a breath between us. “Let me go,” I demand.

“No,” he replies, slowly laying his lips on mine. My heads swims with desire. My balls cramp and my cock jerks. And then I remember that I can’t do this. I pull away and find my tongue. “No,” I say, breaking free of his hold and stepping to the side.

He tilts his head to the side as he stares at me with those eyes, mining my soul for a truth I’m not ready to reveal. “I thought you wanted this,” he says.

“Not like this,” I reply.

“Like what?” he frowns.

“You don’t _want_ me,” I hiss, “You just don’t want me to leave.” I reach for the door handle, determined to get out of there—until he leans on it, closes it, and refuses to let me out. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I warn.

“You don’t know how to hurt me,” he replies.

I frown as I look into his eyes filled with the same pain and confusion that haunts him always. Whoever hurt him in the past did a real fucking number on him.

“You’re wrong when you say I don’t want you,” he says, stepping in close again.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re all I fucking think about,” he whispers. “Day and fucking night. You’re always in my head. I can never get you out.”

“You’re lying,” I say.

“Am I?” he replies, weighing his forehead against mine.

My heart slams against my rib cage as he slams me against the wall. I stand absolutely still; watch the rise and fall of his chest, wondering what he’s going to do next. I dare not move as he presses his lips to my nose, my cheek, my jaw, my lips… I can’t take it anymore. I open my mouth and invite him in. He steals my breath and makes a slave of my soul as our tongues entwine in unashamed desire.  He slips his hand beneath my shirt and with trembling fingers he skims my skin—my chest, my nipple, my stomach… I throw my head back and gasp when he finds my pride. He kneads my cock through the fabric of my jeans as he whispers in my ear, “I want you.”

I grab the hem of his t-shirt, pull it over his head, get it off him as fast as I can. Then I slam his back against the wall. I pop the snap on his jeans and tug at the zipper. He trembles all over as I release his cock from within. “You sure about this?”

He looks hard into my eyes and nods. “Yes.”

His breath is short and sharp as I take him and stroke him. He closes his eyes as he hardens into my hand and succumbs to the pleasure. I keep it simple. Don’t want him to freak. My own cock swells and my balls clench tight as I pump him. If I’m not careful, I’m gonna blow where I stand. I kiss his cheek, his jaw, his neck, and pick up the pace. It’s not long before he’s rock hard and aching to cum. I pull away.

“What?” he says, suddenly confused.

I sink to my knees, put my Jack on the floor, and once again take him in hand. I rub my thumb across the slit, watch the pre-cum ooze, then lean in and lick.

He gasps as my tongue goes to town. Then I open my mouth and take him.

“Jesus…” he groans.

I tighten my lips and suck the length of his shaft, slowly at first, savoring every precious thrust. He rocks his hips forward, weaves his fingers through my hair and begs me to go faster. Every smack of my mouth takes him closer to the edge of paradise.

“Slash…” he warns, expecting me to pull away. But I don’t. Within seconds his cock erupts and fills my mouth with every ounce of desire he’s kept hidden from me. I suck and swallow until he is spent and all that is left is his fascination for me.

I take a swig of Jack then get to my feet and grind my cock against his thigh. I’m dangerously close to losing my load when I sigh, “Turn around.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He faces the wall, and offers me the gift of himself.

I peel off my t-shirt and toss it to the floor. I take deep breaths to get a grip on my haste. I push his jeans down past his hips then I spit on my fingers and go in search of his prize. It’s not hard to find. I slip a finger inside.

He catches his breath as I drive it in. Gently. In and out… In and out. When his body relaxes to the rhythm of my finger I slip in another one curling, pumping, spreading him wide enough to take me. Soon it’s too much and I can’t wait. I lean in close and whisper in his ear, “I want to fuck you.”

All he can do is nod.

I unlace my leather and release my cock, a rock so swollen it hurts. I spit in my hand, slick myself up, then press my head against his tight white hole.

He holds his breath as he waits for my entrance. But I can’t do it.

“What?” he says.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I reply.

“I already told you,” he gasps. “You don’t know how.”

My heart aches for him. My soul longs for him. My cock burns for him. Nothing this wrong has ever felt so right. My heart pounds as I spread his cheeks, as my foreskin rolls back and I push my way inside him.

He throws his head back against my shoulder as he wails, “Jesus...”

I stop and wait—the pain too much for him, the pleasure too much for me. Then he catches his breath and bears down against me as he tells me to go. I entwine my fingers in his and press my chest against his back and slow thrust in. He moans as I start to thrust, as I bury myself inside him, as we rock together as one. He arches his back and presses his ass hard against my hips. I wrap my arms around his waist as I swell inside his body and my orgasm builds. He reaches back and grabs my ass, digging his fingers into my flesh. My heart races as my thrusts get deeper, harder, faster, until all of sudden I’m on the razor’s fucking edge. I hold him tight and whisper, “I’m gonna cum.” A second later, heat flares in my balls and I’m there. I groan as wave after wave of longing erupts from inside me. Then we stand, panting, bound in bliss, until my cock goes soft and I realize that fucking him once will never be enough.

Finally, I pull out. He pulls up his jeans as he turns to face me, a full stop at the end of our affair. “Now what?” he says, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“That depends,” I say.

“On what?” he replies.

I lift his chin so I can see in his eyes. And I can see the disquiet churning and burning through his mind like he’s certain I’m going to leave—just like every other motherfucker he’s dared to trust. “It depends on you,” I say.

He looks hard into my eyes as he considers my words and wonders if he can trust me. Finally, he nods and tells me, “I want you to stay.”

Neither do I. I know life with Axl ain’t gonna be easy, but I need to try. I plunder his mouth in post-fuck kiss and promise him, “Then I'll stay.”

 


End file.
